


Through Gentle Summer's End

by captainkilly



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-18 05:20:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8150462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkilly/pseuds/captainkilly
Summary: A man lies dying under the Devil's watchful gaze.





	

He coughs out a laugh when the light streaks past devil's horns and a suit red as blood.

"Come for my confession, Red?"

There is no answer to his low murmur, though he knows the other man will have heard him perfectly. Just as well. He thinks that he would come to blows with the Devil of Hell's Kitchen if the man would elect to speak. That's how things have always been, even at the times of precarious truce.

There's a rattle to his own breath that he knows the man will have heard, too. The ache of finality is settling in his bones, sewing his muscles shut tight with the promise of all-too-soon release, slowing the flow of blood that is coating his hands and clothes in the age-old warrior's fashion. Oblivion's crash is rolling in like the waves hit the sand on a too-sunny beach.

He thinks it's a funny thing to realise that even his small hourglass of time ran out faster than he thought it would. Coughs out another incredulous laugh.

"Last time, you brought me in," he tells the devil. Shakes his head. "This time, you'll leave me here." He's not asking. Shit, he's _done_ asking. He's just telling it as it is. "I heard that this place, uh.. it's got this sunrise, you know? Makes me think of her. Heard it streaks past her now the way it used to streak her hair."

He remembers the gleam of her bright blonde hair streaming out behind her in the sunlight. His hands would wind into it every chance he got. It was like liquid gold running through his fingers, soft and strong at the same time. He thinks he can still smell honey on his skin. Taste cherries on his lips.

The stone is hard and cold against his back. His memories of her touch are softer than that. Her fingers used to dance over his arms before curling around the top of his shirt in a motion she'd perfected as being entirely hers. He couldn't help but be pulled in. She'd arch her back to his hands and kisses long before he even got her near a bed. He remembers the sunlight setting her aglow in the early hours of morning.

"You remember that, right? That smile she used to wear?" He needs someone to tell him that it was like oxygen suckerpunching its way into the lungs of everyone she met. That the blue of heaven met her eyes and grew soft but sharp within it like a cold winter's sky. "She could unravel me with it. She was so _real_."

He inhales deeply and it feels like his insides crumble under his touch.

"She was good, Red. Shit, she was so _good_. And you're thinking, right, you're thinking.. she ain't gonna look at you twice, man. And you're telling her to stay even when you're begging her to run away and don't look back. You ask her to stay because she's good and she's all the shit you lost and she's a bit of home even when you don't know her at all. You know what that is."

He shakes his head. Blinks away the dark spots in his vision. He has to say this only once. Once and then no more.

"She said I was dead to her once. I shut the door on her. Then I see her, in that shitty diner. Gun in hand. Two guys on the floor. She's shakin' like a leaf, can tell through the window. I go in. First thing she does is train that gun on me. Second thing she does is tell me to check on the bodies. See if they're really dead. That's how she was. Shit, I don't know which one of us was the warzone. Torrent of bodies left in our wake. Stories about this city. Bedtime stories that'd scare the shit out of anyone. Until that shot."

The devil's mask gleams brightest red.

"I got 'em. _All_ of them." His voice turns dark. His vision's spotty again. The mask becomes a blur. "The assassin. The moneyshooter. The arranger. The lackeys, the minions, the puppets, the pawns. The kingpin." If he closes his eyes now, all he'll hear are gunshots and sirens. "I took my time. Paid her dues that way. She brought him down on paper. I brought him to his knees. I walked away. Like I told him I would." He thinks the other man understands. "Wasn't gonna kneel by him. Wasn't gonna die in the gutter like him. But I think I'm done now."

He said that to the man once before, a long time ago. Now, he knows it for sure. Means it now that he can't feel his feet or his hands or the hard ground underneath him. There's nothing left.

"Final confession. I don't regret her. I don't regret death." He could never regret her. Doesn't think he knows how to bargain with death well enough to come to a semblance of regret. "If God's real, Red.. He'll have to beg like the rest of 'em. For taking her. For taking Maria. For taking the kids." He smiles real wide and tastes blood on his tongue. "Guess we'll see, huh. Guess we'll.."

His breath shudders. Halts. His lungs burn. His vision blurs and edges toward the long, endless dark. He closes his eyes and braces for impact.

Death comes quietly that night.

*

The city's first light seems almost uncertain of itself. It takes a while for the sun to creep slowly over the glass and concrete. Even longer until it hits the water, the grass, the leaves on the trees. It seems colder than usual. New York shivers and huddles together accordingly.

The headlines aren't quiet. Salesmen are actually shouting them down the street after him. They sound joyful and mournful in equal measure.

FISK DEAD

BULLSEYE REIGN ENDED

THE PUNISHER'S EULOGY

Headlines rarely tell the whole story, or so the Devil believes. They talk of loss and death in glaring black-and-white. They talk of reigns of terror. Of wars waged in blood and the dead of night. They rarely talk about the people who could inspire such fights. It's perhaps easier for the city to believe that one man would defend them all to the death.

His cane taps the pavement at a steady pace. There is a lot of work to do. The weight of it rests on his shoulders.

He turns the corner. Father Lantom is already perched on the bench. He hears the man's steady heartbeat before he steps closer. There are no easy ways to do this. He doesn't know how to talk with the priest any more than he knows how to talk with God.

"They have found him," he says without preamble as he seats himself on the other side of the bench. "Police officers discovered Frank's body yesterday morning."

"Did you expect any other outcome?"

The answering question is swift. Short. To the point. If he contemplates it, he knows he will have to answer it with a firm 'no'. Men like Frank aren't long for this life. He's known that since he first spoke with the man. It's not _his_ loss that hurts.

He takes a deep breath.

"They found his body on her grave, Father."

"And so he goes with love after waging his judgment on us all." If he didn't know better, he would almost say Father Lantom sounds.. pleased. The priest pauses for a second. Sunlight creeps across their bench. "What more is there, Matthew?"

"I don't know." He takes a deep breath. Exhales. Reconsiders. "I want to know if he regretted any of it."

"That is between him and God. It does not influence our capacity for forgiveness or understanding. We make our own amends, before the end."

The words echo in the Devil's mask that night.


End file.
